Huntingtower
By John Buchan
The young man did not answer at once, for her face held his gaze. He had never dreamed that the gawky, rather plain little girl he had romped with long ago in Paris would grow into such a being. The clean, delicate lines of her figure, the exquisite pure colouring of hair and skin, the charming young arrogance of the eyes—this was a beauty, he reflected, a miracle, a revelation. Her virgin fineness and dress, the tint of pale fire, gave her the air of a creature of ice and flame.
“About yourself, please, Saskia,” he said. “Are you happy now that you are a grown-up lady?”
“Happy!” Her voice had a thrill in it, like frosty music. “The days are far too short. I grudge the hours when I must sleep. They say it is sad for me to make my début in a time of war. But the world is very kind to me; after all, it is a victorious war for Russia. And listen to this, Quentin. Tomorrow, I will be allowed to begin nursing at the Alexander Hospital. What do you think of that?”
The time was January 1916, and the place was a room in the grand Nirski Palace. No hint of war, no breath from the snowy streets, entered that curious chamber where Prince Peter Nirski kept some of the chiefs of his famous treasures. It was notable for its lack of drapery and upholstering—only a sofa or two and a few fine rugs on the cedar floor. The walls were green marble veined like malachite, and the ceiling was dark marble inlaid with white intaglios. There were tables and cabinets laden with celadon china, carved jade, ivories, and shimmering Persian and Rhodian vessels. In all the room, there was scarcely anything of metal and no touch of gilding or bright colour. The light came from green alabaster censers, and the place swam in a cold green radiance like some cavern below the sea. The air was warm and scented, and though it was hushed there, a hum of voices and the strains of dance music drifted to it from the pillared corridor in which the glare of lights from the grand ballroom beyond could be seen.
The young man had a thin face with lines of suffering around the mouth and eyes. The warm room had given him a high colour, which increased his air of fragility. He felt a little choked by the place, which seemed a hothouse for both body and mind, though he knew very well that the Nirski Palace on this gala evening was in no way typical of the land or its masters. He was eating black bread with its owner in a hut on the Volhynian front just a week ago.
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John Buchan
John Buchan, 1st Baron Tweedsmuir GCMG GCVO CH KStJ PC DL ( 26 August 1875 – 11 February 1940) was a Scottish novelist, historian, and Unionist politician who served as Governor General of Canada, the 15th since Canadian Confederation.
Biography.
After a brief legal career, Buchan simultaneously began his writing career and his political and diplomatic careers, serving as a private secretary to the administrator of various colonies in southern Africa. He eventually wrote propaganda for the British war effort during the First World War. He was elected Member of Parliament for the Combined Scottish Universities in 1927. Still, he spent most of his time on his writing career, notably writing The Thirty-Nine Steps and other adventure fiction. In 1935, King George V, on the advice of Prime Minister R. B. Bennett, appointed Buchan to replace the Earl of Bessborough as Governor General of Canada, for which purpose Buchan was raised to the peerage. He occupied the post until he died in 1940. Buchan was enthusiastic about literacy and the development of Canadian culture, and he received a state funeral in Canada before his ashes were returned to the United Kingdom.
John Buchan
